So, my sister doesn’t think I’m funny. Can’t say as I blame her. I’m not sure where my warped sense of humor came from, but it showed up when I was a child. My brother shares some of my humor genes, but my sister doesn’t. She has far too much common sense. A gene we don’t share. My father had a good sense of humor but was more into telling jokes, although he would say things like while watching a dancer on the Ed Sullivan Show, “Would you believe she has a wooden leg?” And when all three of us kids would say, “Really!?” He’d say, “No, I just wanted to know if you’d believe it.”
I didn’t inherit my sense of humor from my mom’s side of the family either. Not from her or her dad, the Reverend Dale Holly. That’s an excellent name for a preacher, isn’t it?
My Sister Doesn’t Think I’m Funny
I Started Young
As I said, my sense of humor getting me into trouble started when I was young. I believe I was seven years old and my sister was five when I convinced her to hop on the back of my bicycle. As I cycled down the sidewalk on 8th street in Connersville, IN. I grabbed an overhanging tree branch and swung off the bike. I was surprised at how far the bike continued without me. Eventually, it began swaying to-and-fro and ended in a neighbor’s bushes. My sister was not happy, but at least nothing was broken on her or the bike. The next day I convinced her to try it again by promising I wouldn’t jump off, but when we got to the overhanging branch, I did it again. That was the last time she rode with me.
I would do things like hide in her closet or rearrange the stuffed animals on her bed so I could hide under them and then scare her. She didn’t think I was funny.
Shadows on the Wall
When I was eight, my little brother was four, and we shared a room. Malcolm was on the bottom bunk, and I took the top. There was just enough light coming through our window after dark from a streetlight to make a shadow on the far wall. I learned I could hold my hand up and make impressions of snakes and two-headed monsters. My brother did not appreciate my shadowbox stylings and would yell at the top of his lungs, “Mom, Randy is doing the hand!” Mom would tell me to stop and Mal to turn over.
Getting Silly with Silly Putty
When I was a preteen, maybe 12 or 13, we lived on the southwest side of Indianapolis. One of my siblings had some silly putty. I was playing with it when it occurred to me that if I put it on my skin, it would look like a burn scar. I tried it on my arm. It did look like a burn. So, back then, everyone had a metal barrel in the backyard to burn trash. Yea, I know not very environmentally friendly. I dug through the trash and found an exploded aerosol can. I gathered the can, a firecracker, and some silly putty and locked myself in the bathroom. Then I took the slimy, pink silly putty and stretched it all over my face. I’m telling ya, it looked real. Next, I lit the firecracker, grabbed the exploded aerosol can, covered my face with my hands, and let out a blood-curdling scream. My sister came running just as I opened the door, dropped the can, and screamed, “It exploded!” I took my hands away from my face, and my sister fainted. My sister doesn’t think I’m funny.
And there’s a book of humor
Want to read a collection of humor pieces? Writing I Think I’m Funny: and it gets me in trouble all the time has been a labor of love. Of the 47 stories in this book, more than 30 are true tales from my days on this planet. Most of those make it clear how my warped sense of humor gets me in trouble.